His Royal Favorite Page 10

  "Do you think if I left before seven I'd beat the crush?" Ben said, munching on his toast.

  "Probably not." The paparazzi seemed to have an endless appetite for the exact same pictures of Ben walking back and forth, car to office building, over and over again.

  "Oh, well." Ben shrugged. "Might as well go in early. I'll give them something for the afternoon editions."

  "You're amazing."

  "Hardly." Ben kissed James's hand, then took the final sip of his coffee. "You know, I've always been sort of surprised that you're such a java fiend. Isn't this the land of tea?"

  "It is, and I love a good cuppa as much as the next Englishman. But Mum became addicted to coffee during her medical studies, and I'm afraid she let us start drinking it when we were far too young." Sometimes James wondered if the stuff had lived up to every old wives' tale and stunted his growth, dooming him to a life at five foot seven.

  "Saves me the trouble of getting you addicted to it myself." Ben kissed him, a deep coffee-flavored kiss, before rising from the kitchen table. "All right. I'm going down. Will the car be ready?"

  "They'll pull it around straightaway." As Ben slung his satchel over his shoulder, James called, "Love you."

  Ben turned back, and the smile on his face made it clear how new those words still were for them both--and that they meant as much to Ben as they did to James. "Love you too."

  For a few minutes after that, James simply went about his morning. Today he would be in the office until lunchtime, so he could dress himself, laze around a few more minutes, talk nonsense to the dogs. When the black landline phone rang, he frowned, but went to pick it up. "Hello?"

  "Your Royal Highness." Kimberley Tseng sounded breathless. "Forgive me for having the call put through to this line, but I'm stuck in traffic. I knew I needed to speak to Mr. Dahan before he went in today."

  "Mr. Dahan has already left."

  "Oh, no. Bloody hell. Forgive my language, sir."

  "You've got his mobile number, haven't you?" But Ben had turned the ringer off on his mobile a few days ago, as everyone he'd ever met had apparently shared the number with a friend or a family member or somebody they wanted to bed. The sheer number of hang-ups was astonishing.

  "I tried that a few times first. Can you not catch him?"

  "The car will be gone by now." James felt his unease growing. "Kimberley, what's wrong?"

  ***

  Arriving nearly an hour early had done nothing, Ben realized. The paparazzi were still there, as many as ever, perking up at the sight of the car. Immediately the shouts began: "Benji! Benji! Do you have any comment on the news today?"

  Ben ignored this as he got out of the car and began shouldering his way toward the door. But then he saw one of the tabloids being waved at him and stopped in his tracks.

  There, on the cover of the Express, were the words BENJI'S TRAGIC PAST. The photograph was of rubble--ruins, really. In the chaos you could almost miss the fact that two dead bodies lay within the wreckage.

  And even though Ben had never seen this image before in his life, he knew what it was instantly. He couldn't fail to recognize his parents, even like that. Crumpled up. Torn apart.

  Chapter 4

  Read All About It

  Before his announcement had even gone public, Ben had given instructions for the Global Media switchboard. Obviously he could no longer take calls from the public at large, not after coming out as the Prince Regent's lover.

  So he'd set it up so that only calls from certain names could get through to him. Back then he'd thought he would put the names of his sources on the list each day; that was before he'd realized he would have to put in time on the copy desk. A handful of others made the list too, most particularly Warner Clifton.

  However, the most obvious name could not. Every joker in the Western world would promptly attempt to call Ben as James, Prince Regent. So he and James had settled upon a pseudonym, "Rory Turner," that only James would use.

  Just after he'd finally sat down at his desk, Ben got his first call from "Rory."

  "Are you all right?" James's voice was so kind--so achingly kind--that Ben felt a surge of totally irrational anger. He needed to be hard now, harder than stone, not have James piercing him through to the heart.

  "I've been better." Ben could feel the others in the newsroom staring at him. Roberto had offered real sympathy, but the others were just gawking.

  "Do you want the car to come back and pick you up? We can arrange that. I can even come with it, if you want."

  It's not your fault, Ben wanted to say. If I don't work through the day, then I've let them tear me down. I'm just going to think about getting through this until I'm with you again.

  But he couldn't say any of that. Every person in the newsroom watching him was undoubtedly listening too. Even if Ben didn't use James's name, everyone would know; there was no one else he could possibly be speaking to about this.

  Back before, when they'd been so worried about being discovered, James had called sometimes. They'd been able to chat, even affectionately, without anybody paying any special attention. They'd been freer than Ben knew.

  He said only, "I'll be okay today."

  "You're sure?"

  "Positive." Ben closed his eyes, forcing back everything he wanted to say. "Really."

  "Then that's--that's all right, then." James didn't sound convinced, but he accepted it. "I'll be there when you get home tonight."

  "Good," Ben said. He could have said I love you, but then they all would have known--and he was so fucking sick and tired of everyone around him knowing everything that ought to be kept inside. So he said nothing.

  ***

  "This is outrageous," James said that night as he paced back and forth. Meanwhile Ben simply sat on the sofa, arms wrapped around his gut, saying almost nothing. He'd been like this ever since he'd gotten home from work; James had no idea how the man had managed to get through the day. His stiffness during their morning phone call had been understandable, considering--but this silence was unnerving. James's anger at the tabloids built by the moment. "Absolutely sickening."

  "I entirely agree, sir." Even Kimberley's normally unflappable demeanor was cracking. James knew her well enough by now to see the very real displeasure just beneath the surface. "But your statement must be moderate."

  "Must? Must? They can publish a photo so horrible, so vicious, and attempt to dictate how I must react to it?"

  Ben said, "I don't make a statement of my own?"

  Kimberley inclined her head. "You may, Mr. Dahan, but I think this is a circumstance where a joint statement would be appropriate."

  James wasn't having it. "They deserve legal action. They ought to be sued for every penny. And Ben, if you want to make your own statement, you can. You have the right to react to this in any way you want."

  "I don't want to react to it at all," Ben said, surprising James. Then Ben took a deep breath. "I'm going to get a drink."

  As he walked toward the bar, James fumed at the people who had hurt Ben so badly. It was a few moments before Kimberley spoke again. "The British people agree with you, sir. Even other tabloids have condemned the publication of these images."

  "That just means they were outbid."

  "Possibly, sir, but the point is that the tide of feeling is with you and with Mr. Dahan." Kimberley's calm voice didn't disguise her urgency. "You want to capitalize upon that, for his sake as much as for yours. If you strike back, and you come across as just another fighter in the fray, it's a wasted opportunity. But if you both come across as sympathetic--if you remain on the high ground despite having been wronged--that sets the tone we want for you both, going forward."

  "I don't want to use this," James said. "Not this."

  "I understand, sir. But if you don't use it, it uses you."

  James leaned forward, head in his hands. For a moment he found himself remembering his mother, the way she used to stare silently at some of the worst press coverage of "Princess Ros
e." The deadness in her gaze then wasn't that different from the way Ben had looked when he'd first come home.

  And thinking of his mother reminded him of the most horrible darkness in his own memories--but James pushed that aside. He had to think of Ben now, Ben first and only.

  "Say that we are both deeply disappointed by the publication of such a graphic and painful photograph. Say that this action was . . . grotesque, and totally unjustifiable. It is beneath any standards of responsible journalism for a civilized society. Today's incident stands among the worst excesses of the paparazzi, and it is unthinkable that Mr. Dahan should have been subjected to this."

  Kimberley nodded, and behind him, James heard Ben say, "That should do it."

  "Nothing to add?" Kimberley said. Ben shook his head as he sat back down, and immediately she stood. "Once again, I apologize for not being here in time to warn you this morning, Mr. Dahan. It won't happen again."

  "I won't leave early again," Ben said, his voice still dull and flat. "Don't worry."

  "Good-bye, Your Royal Highness, Mr. Dahan." With that, Kimberley took herself off, the click of her high heels in the hallway as precise as the ticks of a metronome.

  For a few moments James and Ben sat together in an awkward silence. James had managed to get through his day despite being utterly livid. He'd assumed his outrage would be nothing compared to Ben's when Ben returned to Clarence House. Ben rarely lost his temper--but he had one, smoldering not far beneath the surface, and James had assumed the horrible photograph in the Express would ignite it. Instead Ben seemed almost shell-shocked.

  "You found out when the photographers waved copies at you?" James began.

  Ben closed his eyes, then shrugged and took a sip of his drink. "It could have been worse. At least that way it was hard for me to really see it."

  "I still can't believe you worked through the day."

  "That's how it is with most jobs," Ben said. "The ones you're not born into. You have to work whether you feel like it or not."

  Stung, James turned away.

  But then he thought, Ben's angry. Of course he's angry. If Ben's lashing out in the wrong direction, isn't that understandable? It was, but James didn't see how to get past it.

  He realized then something he'd never consciously considered before: neither he nor Ben had ever been in a long-term, healthy adult relationship before. Ben's only commitment appeared to have been made to his manipulative abuser, while James had traded a well-meaning clandestine lover for a vicious, blackmailing one. How could either of them know how to deal with something like this?

  So James did the only thing he could think of. He said exactly what was on his mind.

  "Ben, please, don't shut me out." James leaned closer and took Ben's free hand in both of his own. "If you don't feel like talking, you don't have to, but I want you to know you can. I love you. I don't know what I can do besides listen, but whatever it is that might help, even a little, name it."

  For a while Ben still didn't speak, and James wondered whether he'd done the wrong thing. Then Ben's fingers closed around his, and he said, "I got past the reporters, and I went upstairs, and I walked into the john and threw up."

  James held on to Ben's hand, waiting.

  "Nobody else was in there. At least nobody else saw me." Ben leaned his head back. "I felt like I could hardly stand."

  "You got through it," James said. "You're the strongest man I know."

  "Not today I wasn't. I stepped out of that car a man, and then I saw that picture, and--and I was thirteen years old again. I was thirteen, and I still made model airplanes, and someone came and told me my parents were dead. All those years since vanished. I was the same boy. It was the same moment."

  James lifted Ben's hand to his lips and kissed the fingers, the palm, pressed Ben's hand against the side of his face. "I'm so sorry."

  "It's not your fault."

  "It is a little."

  "Stop that." Ben put down his drink and clutched James in his arms. "Stop taking the weight of the world on your shoulders. This is mine to bear."

  "I just wish it could all be different," James said, feeling stupid and helpless.

  But Ben hugged him more tightly. "I do too."

  James wrapped his arms around Ben as well, and for a long time they remained like that, Ben's face buried in the curve of James's neck, James's fingers twined through Ben's hair. He tried to imagine Ben as a thirteen-year-old boy, still undamaged by the world, painting markings on tiny metal planes, holding them above his head and pretending they could fly.

  He had been nineteen when he'd lost his parents, when this had happened to him. It wasn't so much older, not really.

  "I love you," James whispered.

  "I love you too." Ben pressed his lips to James's collarbone, then pulled back and took a deep breath. "All right. Let's think about something else. In fact, let's not think at all."

  The first possibility that sparked in James's mind seemed utterly inappropriate. If James wasn't in the mood, how must Ben feel? So he came up with another suggestion. "We could watch some telly."

  "Telly," Ben murmured in amusement as James went for the remote. Every once in a while, Ben became very American in his English usage and started finding James's phrases funny; James usually responded by using more and more British-isms, talking about crisps and the lift and the boot of the car. Today he just snapped on the TV.

  The screen came to life with an image of Catherine Tate, who apparently was this week's guest host of Have I Got News for You. To the participants she said, "Whose coming out this week caused great consternation?"

  Instantly James hit pause. For a moment he and Ben sat there in silence.

  Then Ben said, "What if we watched a movie?"

  "A movie it is."

  ***

  The next morning, Ben noted, there were slightly fewer paps lurking around the Global Media offices, and none of them waved copies of any paper at him. It made a nice change--but, he suspected, a short-lived one.

  Yesterday had been utterly brutal. The many indignities he'd borne since coming out with James had been bad enough, but they had been fundamentally unimportant. No, he didn't like having people yell "Benji" at him. He didn't like being named Heat magazine's "Torso of the Week." But in the end these things were too silly to take much to heart.

  His difficulties at his job were becoming harder to face. Having the same sources he used to rattle now titillated by his name undercut his ability to be a professional. Being assigned to the copy desk was a solution, but a fairly boring one; he itched to get back to his real work. And yet he knew even this was temporary, that he was doing a meaningful job well, and that he had Fiona's and Roberto's friendships to support him.

  In short, nothing had ever made him question his decision to go public with James until he'd seen the picture of his parents' dead bodies.

  They'd looked so crumpled. So little. Always Ben had imagined them lying still and almost serene . . . a ridiculous, unrealistic image, but one he'd been able to bear. Now and forever after he would know that they'd been crushed, bones broken so that their limbs lay at unnatural angles, and not peaceful at all.

  I can take this, Ben told himself. Better to know the truth anyway.

  As he sat down to his desk, he sent a quick response to the nice e-mail from Roberto (I could run out and get us sandwiches for lunch), ignored the nice e-mail from Fiona (let me know if you want to talk), and got to work. He didn't even have to make phone calls for the first series of checks, so he could immerse himself in his task.

  After a while--ten minutes? An hour? No telling--his phone rang. Ben stared at it for a second. Would it be James again? Kimberley?

  He picked up the receiver. "Dahan."

  "I saw the photos. Terrible. Not peaceful at all, the way you used to imagine it."

  The voice sounded sympathetic, but Ben knew better. He took a deep breath., "Hello, Warner."

  "You're in the whirlwind now, aren't you, my beautiful bo
y?"

  Half of Ben wanted to say, Don't call me that. I'm not your boy, I'm not your anything. The other half wanted to say, God, yes, in the heart of it and I don't know which way is up any longer.

  Deep inside, part of his soul was still sixteen years old, undefended and naked before the first man who had ever been his lover.

  Ben said only, "What do you want?"

  "I'm still in London, but I suppose meeting up now is impossible, hmm? Pity." It was just like Warner, to assume that Ben would have been his for the taking otherwise. "I should have known your silence wasn't coyness. Still, how could I ever have guessed you were hunting such big game?"

  I wasn't hunting James, not all of us think of lovers as prey--"You still haven't told me what you want."

  "I want the world to know you're not just the prince's plaything. I want them to know you're a real man, one who has led a full and varied life."

  There, wrapped in Ben's fiercest desire, was the threat: sugared and deadly, like some poisoned sweet in an Agatha Christie tale.

  "We should talk," Ben said.

  "My thoughts exactly. Is it impossible for us to see each other?"

  "Not now. Give me your phone number. When I have a moment--"

  "Of course," Warner murmured, the note in his voice low and familiar. It reminded Ben of long-ago days, of afternoons spent in Warner's bed, learning how to give Warner everything he wanted. Even the telephone number sounded like an obscene invitation. Ben jotted it down, but his hand seemed to be moving automatically, bypassing his confused brain.

  Ben managed to say, "I'll call you."

  "I'll be waiting. I do miss you every once in a while, my boy." The phone line clicked and went dead, denying Ben even the possibility of a response.

  Then he could only sit there, staring down at the numbers. Ben remembered Kimberley's instructions: Hand Warner over for destruction. He also remembered James's offer: whatever money it would take to silence him.

  But what did Ben want?

  After a few moments, he folded the paper and tucked it in his pocket. He'd think about it later.

  ***

  When Ben arrived back at Clarence House, he expected to find James waiting for him; this was a day when his royal duties would have him home fairly early. Everything within him fought against telling James about Warner's call, which was why Ben was leaning toward doing it right away, before second thoughts could take over.